


wedding bells (were just alarms)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, F/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, Ward x Simmons Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant was missing for ten days and has been in recovery for six; Jemma's had plenty of time for soul searching.</p><p>[For the Ward x Simmons Summer theme <b>Wedding/Engagement AU</b>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	wedding bells (were just alarms)

**Author's Note:**

> As very frequently happens to me, this was SUPPOSED to be a little prequel drabble for another idea I have. Then it went and grew...a lot. *sigh* But at least I wrote something! That's not happening as much as it used to, so it's always nice. And speaking of things that happen frequently, I'm behind on comment replies. I'll try to catch up on those ASAP, I promise!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

It takes everything Jemma has to restrain herself; the door has barely clicked shut behind the departing doctor before she’s climbing onto Grant’s bed, arranging herself very carefully against his less injured side.

 _Less_ injured, because there’s not a single part of his body that can be labeled _uninjured_. From the stitched-closed wound high on his forehead to his two broken toes, he’s absolutely covered in bandages, casts, and bruises—and that’s only what’s _visible_. With the doctor’s recitation of his internal injuries ringing in her ears…

A sob escapes her despite her very best efforts to hold it back, and Grant’s splinted arm wraps loosely around her waist to hug her.

“Shh,” he says. “I’m okay, Jem.”

“You are the absolute _furthest thing_ from okay, Grant Ward,” she snaps—though her attempt at a sharp tone is rather undermined by a sniffle. She’s been battling tears for _weeks_. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I was goin’ for reassuring, not patronizing,” he says, mouth turning up on one side. “Sorry.”

He’s not smiling at her, precisely, but it’s likely the closest he can get to it without pain, considering the stitches in one cheek and the horrid bruising on the other. The attempt has all her worst fears rushing back, and she hides her face against his shoulder as tears sting again at her eyes.

“I thought—” She drags in a deep breath, struggling for composure. “I thought you were—”

“I know,” he murmurs. His hand comes up to stroke her hair, a typically reassuring motion that this time only leaves her cold, as it necessitates the removal of his arm from around her. His ribs—not to mention several very important, very _delicate_ internal organs—are in no state to allow him to reach across his body; in this position, he’s restricted to touching her with only the one hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

She shakes her head impatiently, sitting up to dash away the tears threatening to spill over. They’ve had this conversation a dozen times already; he’s been in hospital for six days now, and every time the doctor comes in to look him over or update him on a wound or—in this case—confirm his list of injuries for the official report, the rush of terror and grief hits her all over again.

It’s time to break this particularly horrid conversational loop, she thinks, and she knows exactly the way to do it. “Marry me.”

Grant blinks at her, adorably confused beneath his bruises and cuts. His hand—which had migrated to stroking along her thigh—lands on hers, that he might thumb her engagement ring.

“Uh, sweetheart, if you wanted to be the one to propose…you’re a little late.” He squeezes her fingers gently. “We’re already getting married, remember?”

“Yes, I know,” she says.

The slight contact of his hand around hers and his warmth against her side isn’t _nearly_ enough, but now that she’s sitting up and facing him—now that she can so clearly see the bandages outlined beneath his scrubs—she doesn’t quite dare lay against him again. Her knowledge of the human body has suddenly become a liability; she knows all too well the damage hiding beneath his skin…and the many, many ways it can yet worsen.

She compromises by folding his hand in both of hers, letting her fingers rest over the steady beat of the pulse in his wrist.

“What I meant to say,” she continues, “was marry me _now_.”

His brow furrows. “You—”

“We’ll call in the base chaplain,” she says, trying to sound calm and collected and not at all like a woman on the verge of a mental breakdown—a possibility Grant’s expression suggests he’s considering. “It will only take me a moment to fetch the rings we picked out; we can exchange them and say our vows and sign the paperwork in a matter of minutes. We could be married before dinnertime.”

Something like excitement kindles in Grant’s eyes and is just as quickly dimmed.

“Jemma,” he says, “no. The wedding you wanted—”

“Was only an excuse to delay,” she interrupts, “and you know it.”

He nods slowly, but doesn’t speak—only waits. He’ll want an explanation before he agrees, which is really only fair. She’s put him off for months, dithering over this detail or that as an excuse not to set a date, and though he allowed it without protest, she knows it hurt him.

So she inhales slowly and digs inside of herself for a coherent explanation. Between the ten days he was missing and his six days of recovery, there’s been plenty of time for soul searching, and she’s long since pinpointed the reason for her hesitation. However, it makes so little sense, even to her, that she’s not certain she can make him understand.

“I…was afraid,” she says, a bit haltingly, and Grant’s eyes narrow. “Not of you, or of getting married, so much as…”

“As what?” he asks after a long moment.

“It was silly,” she confesses softly. “But…your work is so dangerous, and…I thought it would hurt more. Losing a husband instead of a boyfriend or a fiancé.”

“Sweetheart,” Grant starts—and then stops, apparently at a loss.

“It was silly,” she repeats. “I know. But if we’re married and you die, I’m a widow for the rest of my life. If we’re _engaged_ and you die…there’s no term for that. I thought—entirely subconsciously—that it would make it…oh, I don’t know. Easier to bear?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but if he does, she just _knows_ she’ll collapse into tears, and so she hurries on.

“I was wrong,” she says. He stills. “While you were missing—” She has to swallow, hard, against her rising nausea, but manages to keep going after only a pause. “—I was terrified. Every time the phone rang, every time someone dropped by to check on me…I was positive I’d be given news of your death. I was so afraid, and all I could think was that we could’ve been married months ago, if not for my stalling.”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and her composure with it. As she succumbs to sobbing, Grant tugs gently but insistently at her hands, until she folds against his side and he can hold her close once more.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing the words into her hair, and she hugs him as tight as she dares.

“Don’t be,” she says through her tears. “You came back to me, and that’s—that’s all I can ask.” She can’t stop her crying, but with effort, she suppresses the hitching sobs, that she might reach her point. “I don’t care about a big wedding, Grant. I just want to be your wife, for as long as—as we get.”

He hugs her closer, chin coming to rest on the top of her head. “Even if it hurts more?”

“Even then,” she confirms. “I’d rather spend the rest of my life hurting than regretting all the chances fear made me miss.”

Silence follows her final words, and Jemma appreciates—more than she can say—that Grant doesn’t rush to fill it with empty reassurance. He can’t promise her forever, can’t promise that she _won’t_ spend the rest of her life hurting, and they both know it. His injuries (and the training he’ll need to get back to fighting shape once they’ve healed) will keep him benched for a while, but once he’s cleared for duty he’ll be right back in the field.

He’s a specialist to the bone; he’d never be happy in a desk job, and she’d never ask him to take one. So although he’s survived this nightmare, she might lose him yet. It’s an indisputable fact, and she’s grateful he doesn’t try to pretend otherwise. He simply keeps his silence and rubs her back as she cries herself out.

“I don’t wanna use the chaplain,” he says, finally, when her sobs have subsided into sniffling. “Guy creeps me out. Kaelin’s ordained; we’ll use him.”

The words take a moment to process; once they do, Jemma pulls back to meet his eyes. “You mean—?”

“Yeah.” Grant gives her a real smile, painful though it must be. “Let’s get married.”

Jemma barely contains a girlish squeal. Relief and excitement beat hard in her chest, doing their part to fill in the hollow that opened when she received news he was missing and has still yet to close.

“Thank you!”

She kisses him swiftly, then eases her careful way out of the bed, mind already ticking over the things they need. The rings are sitting on their coffee table; she pulled them out to cry over while he was still missing. Kaelin might well be on duty, but he’s an armory guard, and they _all_ adore Grant; once she explains why she needs Kaelin, she’s positive it will be easy to find someone to cover for him for as long as it takes to marry her and Grant. They’ve been engaged for more than a year, so Legal is certain to already have the paperwork ready…

“They might not _let_ us get married right now,” Grant says, clueing her in to the fact she’s been voicing all of this. “Considering I’m under the influence of high-grade painkillers and all.”

“No, you’re not,” Jemma dismisses—a bit absently, as the mirror above the sink in the corner has caught her attention. Her eyes are red and face tearstained; she looks an awful mess. Perhaps she should clean up a bit before she ventures out of the room. “Honestly, Grant, what do you take me for? Nothing you’re on is any stronger than common aspirin.”

He’s quiet as she gives her face a quick wash at the sink, then asks, “How did you know?”

“You mean aside from the agony you’re in?” she asks, a bit tartly. “You may have noticed I’ve been paying close attention to your chart; I saw the change as soon as it happened yesterday.”

He chuckles lowly, a brief tightening around his eyes the only sign of the hurt it must cause. “Surprised you let me get away with it.”

“I tried to talk the nurses into changing it back,” she confesses, even as she fetches her shoes from beneath the couch under the window. “But you’re not in bad enough shape for my medical power of attorney to apply, so they refused.” She pauses to pout briefly, still annoyed a day later. “And then they made a point to stress how closely your blood is being monitored and how obvious it will be if I give you anything myself.”

“Poor Jemma,” Grant says, laughing a little louder. “Thwarted at every turn, huh?”

“Yes,” she says. “It appears I have no choice but to let you continue to suffer—though I _do_ wish you’d reconsider, Grant. You’re in such awful shape; I _know_ you’re hurting terribly.”

“Yeah.” He looks down at himself, then flicks her a rueful smile. “You might have to take a rain check on the wedding night.”

She shakes her head, amazed at his ability to feign normalcy, even in the face of what must be truly excruciating pain—so excruciating that the nurses told her they only agreed to so drastically reduce his prescription because they thought he’d change his mind within two minutes of the changes taking effect.

Not for the first time, she wonders whether his absurd pain tolerance might qualify him for the Gifted Index.

“There’s no _might_ about it,” she says. “I will absolutely be taking a rain check—on which I will collect with _interest_.” She detours back to the bed to give him a deeper kiss, one that has his closer hand coming up to tangle in her hair, though—thanks, no doubt, to the pain he’s fighting—it ends much sooner than it usually would. “So concentrate on healing up quickly, all right? It would be rude to leave your wife waiting long.”

Grant grins. “You’re not my wife yet.”

“No,” she agrees, “and on that note, I’ll be right back with Kaelin and our rings.”

A wedding in a hospital bed isn’t _quite_ what dreams are made of, but after sixteen days spent thinking she’d never get a wedding at all?

It’s more than enough.


End file.
